A Model? I Think Not

  I am blessed to work with some of the sweetest ladies in the world. Since arriving with my new hair cut, I have received a few comments from these wonderful ladies saying I should be a model. I wave off the comments but... before exiting the bathroom, I can't help but strike a pose giving myself a second glance in the mirror before leaving. My confidence builds and I begin to walk with my head held high around the office like it was my very own run way. When stopping to talk to people I stand with my weight on one leg and my hands on my hips picturing myself at the end of a cat walk in a fashion show.  I flip my hair, catch a glimpse of the clock on the wall, and realize that it's time to pump. I strut my stuff down the hallway and into my office.

   I close the door, shut the blinds, sit myself at my desk, plug in my pump, hook myself up, and am lulled into a daydream about my modeling career from the rhythmic sounds of the pump. Suddenly, I feel sweat dripping down my arm and notice that I am developing pit stains because my breast feeding hormones are kicking in. I snap out of my daydream, grab some napkins left on my desk from lunch and stick them under my arm pits making a mental note to shave the two week old unsightly stubble that dwells there. While putting the napkins in place, one of the pumps slips off and milk spills onto my jeans.  I blow on my jeans to dry the stain. Sweat beads develop on my forehead. As I maneuver my forehead under my armpit and use the napkin there to dry the sweat on my brow, I hear my name being called and nearly jump out of my seat. The voice approaches and I frantically glance at the door praying that I remembered to lock it. The girl calling me, gets to the door, knocks, calls my name through the door and tries the handle. Thank God Almighty! It does not open. I locked the door! I pretend not to be there, hoping she will go away but she keeps calling me and asks me why my door is locked. Just as I am about to tell her that I am indisposed, someone comes and helps her out with whatever it is that she needed. Phew! Can you imagine the trauma I would have caused her if she would have walked in? The "office model" looking like a cow hooked up to a noisy pump, with pit stains, hairy armpits, napkins hanging out of her shirt, stained jeans, and sweat soaked hair pasted to her forehead.  A model? I think not! 

  My bathroom pose striking, cat walk strutting, hair flipping, hands on hip standing days ended almost as soon as they began. Thanks to the nice office ladies for boosting my ego for a few minutes and thanks to motherhood for causing it to come crashing down into oblivion.